


Только Ветры

by vassilissa



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, References to Depression, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6773359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vassilissa/pseuds/vassilissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'll tell you a story— one that's been told, but doesn't stand true anymore. It is about a boy, an <i>ageless</i> boy, whom shattered in dust and ashes, when in reality didn't, and about a <i>girl</i>, whose heart holds everything it ever yearned for, yet feels only hallow when sunlight is claimed by her fingers, but doesn't want her anymore.</p><p>I'll tell you a story about time and what it didn't mean for neither of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. snow covered

It is a curse; being bound with eternity. It is a cloak you wear—it is heavy, and it is unwanted, and it is filled with grief and knowledge and things like experience and inevitability. You chase your way around it, but in reality you are running together; in it and through it, always endless, always ruthless.

It is a curse; power. Power that resides in you, but you cannot call to it, cannot bring it forth, cannot even _wake_ it, when you feel the weight of it on your eyelids; on your very chest. It is such a curse when it is the only thing keeping you _alive_.

These are lessons Alina had to teach herself, in the months that followed her martyrdom. They are lessons unfinished, facts only few know. She had to learn more about them, has all the time in the world, but doesn’t want it. She is burdened with what the Saints gave her; burdened with what she saw in the darkness.

Burdened by his ghost and his name and his vision. Burdened by what she had to do, when she did not want to. By what he _made_ her do, like he had said to her lifetimes ago. She understood now; she absolutely didn’t then.

Mal watches her from the orphanage’s window. She’s lying on the snow covered ground—again and again—face pale, nose red, white, lifeless hair becoming one with the colorless scenery—she will not move for hours. Later, she will be burning up with fever and hallucinations, but for now he’s leaving her think. Leaving her revisit her ghosts.

Actions troubled her terribly still. Maybe it was a blade, tearing through a chest, then another. Maybe it was a repeated betrayal, when she knew no such thing.

He steps away from the window.

 _Or_ , _maybe_ , she’s thinking, eyes closed, feeling the earth move, burn the side of her face, freeze her awful heart; _maybe it is the name_ , _a common name_ , echoing in her head. Maybe it was what it meant now that she had made a decision.

Perhaps it was how, at night, when her eyes would search the dark corners of a room, looking for quartz piercing eyes, she’d find nothing but shadows, shadows that didn’t belong to him, and her chest would fill with disappointment and dread for what she’d done. Perhaps it was how terrified she was of sleeping knowing that when they all died, she would be the one truly alone, forever.

She did not know forever. She would experience it. She would understand, finally.

Her fingers would always drift to the scarred skin on her shoulder. Her fingers would remember what her mind refused to acknowledge.

How she desperately sought for him. How loud Mal’s silence was.

Her hands sank into the snow, trying to grab what could not be grabbed. The heat of her skin melted the snow. She would learn coldness; it is, as all things are with her, a _curse_.

She would master this curse. She would not let herself succumb to its harrowing devastation.

 

* * *

 

There was a man on a beautiful, black horse, drowned by his own darkness. He stood watching not far from that orphanage, always alert, always leaving when the girl would go inside.

He would try calling out to her by their tether, but it was to no avail. Whatever connected them had been broken; had been carved out with a knife by her doing.

When she would lie down in the snow, she looked like the ghost from his dreams; beautiful—half  _dead_. As was natural, the man understood many things, including what the girl was trying to accomplish. They were not very different; it came down to this, no matter her excessive ways to prove him otherwise.

He used to do the same when he was a child; lie on the snow; try to find whatever had been missing. He almost does not remember this, as he looks at her. Sometimes, he’s lived too long, he’s grown very tired, he wishes for that knife to had killed him; truly, once and for all _killed him_ , but then he recalls all the wars, all the fights, all the attempted murders, assassinations, jealous otkazat’sya. Had Alina— _Alina_ —been so foolish as to _think_ —

He supposes that she had been, yes. It all didn’t matter now. He could sense her power—it was weak, almost nonexistent—but he had done this a thousand times before, and he knows how to make it spark to life again; knows how to help her.

He’s willing to wait a hundred years more. The war is over, indeed, but the story isn’t. Not till she has seen—not till he has _shown_ her.

The tracker is not taking care of her. There’s little life left in her. He smiles at this. It truly _is_ an irony.

He turns his horse around, fleeing Keramzin.

_He would bind his time. He would **not** be alone in this misery._

 

* * *

 

Alina opens her eyes, feeling, _hearing_ —she gasps, gaze wildly searching for him once again.

She sees nothing but _white_ ; hears nothing but the sharp wind.


	2. fever ridden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the second chapter, hope you like it. you're always welcome to comment and tell me your thoughts and wishes. or just cry with me for what could be, but isn't. i'm still so bitter over the ending of the trilogy. anyway, next chapter will be a few years after this one. it'll be full with aleksander morozova, aka my favorite character and poor son who deserved better

‘Are you okay?’ A hand presses gently on her shoulder. She reaches for it, eyes never leaving the fire, and how it burns the wood that Mal had cut earlier.

 _Are you okay?_ She wasn’t, not really. She hasn’t been in a long time. It does not matter much now.

His hands are rough; big. She’s reminded of another pair of hands, but there is no resemblance. She is _reminded_ of them.

‘The snow’s thick. We’re trapped here,’ is what she says instead.

‘We’ve been trapped before.’ His voice is calm, but there is an underlining tone that Alina doesn’t miss. She just can’t figure out what it is.

 _We’ve been trapped before_. Many times over; they could survive, she knows. It wasn’t so much the fact as it was the feeling it provoked in her. _Trapped._ There was supposed to be no more of that; she was supposed to be free; be happy.

She wasn’t. How truly simple it all was. _Happiness_. She found no such thing— _he_ was right. There would be no happiness for her; not like this. She had been foolish and she had been _careless_. She thought only in the moment, always forgetting about the future. How Baghra’s words echoed in her mind; how they never seemed to stop echoing.

‘Alina.’ Now Mal was miserable, too.

‘Yes?’

‘Won’t you come back to me?’ His hand had travelled down to her breast. She had grown numb to his touch a long time ago, yet she always pretended—for him.

‘I’m right here, Mal,’ she spoke softly.

‘No,’ his voice had gone angry; bitter. He took his hand away. ‘No, you’re not.’

The fire seemed to burn her eyes. She looked away from it.

‘We both knew that losing my power—’

‘You should have just _killed_ me—’

‘I did,’ she said; anger boiling inside her, but never expressing itself. ‘I _did_ kill you.’

‘You should have done it again.’ His voice made it unbearable for her to keep her eyes open.

There had been tears, almost every night, but she seemed to have bled dry and now she’s left with none. Only the heavy sensation in her chest and the closing of her throat—only memories of what she once could do.

Before she could say anything else, before she could plead for him not to leave her alone again, Mal had slammed the door shut.

Alina could faintly bring an old woman’s words to her lips, mouthing them hesitantly:

_Close the door, you’ll leave all the heat out._

 

* * *

 

  _‘You might make me a better man.’_

_‘And you might make me a monster.’_

_Would it be so terrible… to be like me?_

_To be like me? To be like me?_

**_Like calls to like._**

She awoke with a startled gasp, eyes wide searching the room as they always do. She froze.

He was there, sitting in the wooden chair in the corner, by the window, looking at her with dark, melting eyes. He looked one with the shadows. He looked _real_.

‘Do you feel it yet?’ he asked.

He was close enough to touch, or so it seemed. How could he be there? It was a dream. It couldn’t _not_ be a dream. Alina didn’t move.

‘Feel what?’

‘Guilt. What you could’ve been; _who_ you could have been.’ He was real enough, throwing false promises in her face like he once did.

She would not trust him again. Yet she did. She fantasized about what could have been all the time. There were no escaping secret wishes. Alina thought she could somehow alter them to fit her crushing reality, but in all actuality she desperately sought a half-ruined past. She _sought_ what was _promised_ to her.

She hated him for making her kill him.

‘Do _you_?’ she retorted.

‘If I said I do? If I said I do, would you _believe_ me, Alina?’

_No. No, I wouldn’t._

When she lifted her hand and brought it down with the Cut, she knew it was a dream.

 

* * *

 

Her forehead was burning up. Mal had placed a cold towel on it, caressing her cheek. Of course she would have a fever. Why was he always letting her harm herself? Why couldn’t he _protect_ her?

Was he really that selfish? Did he really still think she would somehow realize he was all she had and she would come running back to him?

Alina was gone _; his_ Alina was lost. He didn’t think she would ever come back. There was only _one_ Alina now, and she was half-missing.

This Alina only belonged to The Darkling. And The Darkling was _dead_.


	3. plain sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! This update is super late I know, I've just been very busy with exams and procrastinating every single other thing in my life, which is not at all surprising.  
> Anyway, hope you like this and comment your thoughts maybe? xx

Mal has left her and softness has left her and happiness does not know her when she knocks on its door, and so she goes to Os Alta to visit Nikolai.

She wears the ring though she shouldn’t and if he sees it he says nothing because he’s Nikolai, and she _knows_ Nikolai. She also knows the look he gives her before he gets down on one knee in the gardens, hoping for an answer that will stand in his liking.

Alina has no such answer. But she kneels too; in front of him. When she cups his cheeks, his skin burns her cold fingertips.

‘You’re so warm,’ she whispers, looking into his hazel eyes and he smiles, all cheek.

‘Says the Sun Summoner.’

‘Oh, me.’ She gets up before she can get ahead of herself. ‘The sun has not been mine for quite some time now, Nikolai.’

Alina says she knows Nikolai, now Tsar Nikolai, has been for years, but when his face softens and he steps closer to her, she forgets she’s sailed the Seas with him.

‘The sun did not abandon you, Alina, it’s _inside_ of you; _find it_.’

 _It will eat me alive_ , she wants to say. _If I let it out, if I find it, it will destroy me_.

Alina smiles instead. She knows a thing or two about politeness.

 

* * *

 

 

When he reaches for her that same night, she fears he’s found a way to her again.

Things happen and they stay that way, her hair is proof of that. But darkness is something that always changes, always adapts, always knows how to stay alive, hiding in the corners, getting tangled up in the creases of your limbs, resting behind your eyelids. Darkness is clever, cleverer than you Alina Starkov, because it has lived longer, no matter how many years pass for you.

She’s not ready for him, but she’s not surprised when he appears and he frowns at that.

‘What are you doing in Os Alta, Alina? You’re dead, remember?’

His mocking tone doesn’t go unnoticed.

‘You’re dead too, yet here we are.’

He’s not wearing a _kefta_ , though his clothing is dark. His eyes outshine the moon that illuminates against the floor, as they do in her dreams and in her nightmares and whenever she thinks of Aleksander Morozova. She wonders what would happen if she spoke that name out loud.

It must be a terrible sound; his name. Long forgotten, a weakness perhaps of his. She won’t know if she doesn’t try it.

So she does.

‘What do you want from me, Aleksander?’

His eyes widen, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give anything away because surprise is a weakness, especially against an enemy.

Though they weren’t really enemies, were they? When you die you cannot _be_ something. When you die you have snow, and you bury yourself in it and you wait. And things grow around you and onto you and into you, and you live from them, through them and that is what you leave behind, in reality.

But when you’re the Darkling, what you can only leave behind is a tale. A tale that is not for children or grown-ups; a tale that belongs in the books in a dusted library, because you’re the villain of it and you’ve been eradicated, extinguished and no one will remember you, because no one will care about your book and your dusted library.

They will care for the hero. And the hero has a halo above her head and a beautiful tombstone.

And you have nothing; you are _alone_ , half rotten, half mad. And that’s why you’re here.

‘You. I want _you_ , Alina. And the throne, and Ravka and my rightful place in it, but mainly—you.’

‘Your lies are pitiful and I’ve had enough of them. Tell me the truth for once and you may have me.’

The smile he gives her is frightening. She’s seen it a million times over.

‘I’ve been telling you nothing but the truth, Alina. But you’ve made your mind up about me, haven’t you?’

She averts her eyes from his frame.

‘Leave, Aleksander.’

‘I never leave. You never see me.’

When the candle burns out and he disappears she searches the corners once again.

He’s not hiding in the corners this new man. He’s in plain sight.


	4. sankta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this was not late, thank god. there is a new character that'll be introduced, it has nothing to do with the books, it's entirely mine. hope you like it!

She visits Baghra’s hut –Nikolai’s ordered to maintain it, and there’s the chair, and the fire place and the bookcase and the warmth that must never leave, but there is not one sign of her teacher, no tea, no cane, no silent disapproval. Just the skeleton of what once was.

And it is _terrifying_ , absolutely dreadful, how she remembers the eyes made of the abyss of her child, all the discreet love the old woman had inside of her for every foolish boy and girl, even for Nikolai, _Saints Nikolai Lantsov_ how she pretended to hate him, when he was just raw, hidden talent and brilliance, such _brilliance_ , and Alina would die and die and _die_ to have that year back, the good and the bad, because Baghra was family and Ravka had become a home that never moved, which is what a home is supposed to be, and Alina—if Alina could _just_ —

But she can’t. She leaves the hut. Waits till it’s night, pulls the hood of her cape up and vanishes from the palace as well.

As she moves, horse running as fast as she wants to escape from time, her signature hair free itself and there was only one thing the wind whispered to her, a harsh sound as she passed each village, each empty field, each path she had taken, each path that had been shown to her and what she learned on her own—

Sankta Alina, Sankta Alina, Sankta Alina—

_I died here. Do you understand? This was my martyrdom, Tolya. I died here today._

How many times do you have to die until it’s not a death anymore? Until it turns into some kind of dance with three repetitive steps; kill your heart, have no happiness, don’t look back.

She doesn’t stop moving for three days.

 

* * *

 

Alina reaches Caryeva when the sun has melted the last of snow. She rides slowly through the town and she sees the ghost of Ivan coming out of a metal shop, thinks she hears the sound of Tamar’s voice, turns around because she caught a bit of red, the name _Harshaw_ on the tip of her tongue. It doesn’t seem real to her, to have had so many allies, so many _friends_ , and to be so alone, so truly alone now.

Oh, she is miserable then. She picks up her pieces, gets water and food for the road and realizes this is not the right way for Keramzin.

Alina can only hope for Mal to have returned to the orphanage, because Saints help her she cannot face that place again. She cannot stand another _minute_ of it.

 

* * *

 

One night when she’s sleeping under the stars she tugs the sleeve of her shirt down and examines the wound a monster had given her not so long ago really.

She thinks of magic and how it works now that she knows of it and how she remembers it from her younger years, before she knew she could hold the sun, before before before, when she was scrawny and dull and an orphan and not much else, and how he could take something like that, kill everything she lived on and around and shape her, morph her into this version of Alina Starkov, a thing she’s still trying to figure out, even drained, how she looks at a sky full of stars and what lies beyond it and still thinks more, **_more_** and how that feels.

She dreams herself a monster. She calls it grey hair, a horse, brown eyes, dark circles, a scar running down a hand. She calls it reality and what it’s left her with.

There are shadows also and always and there and never leaving.

 

* * *

 

‘Girl. _Girl!_ ’

Alina’s on her feet before she can even process it. She has a knife, it’s on her, but the stranger in front of her is a boy, just a boy, and he’s looking at her as if she’s grown three heads and so she thinks there’s no real danger.

‘I thought you were dead,’ he says and his Ravkan is barely passable.

‘Where are you from?’ she asks, picking up her blanket, checking for her horse.

‘The border,’ he answers and he reminds her a bit of Mal when he was a kid; brown hair, blue eyes, too tall for his own good.

What are you when you’re from the border? Are you Shu? Are you Ravkan? Are you anything at all?

‘You look weird,’ he comments and Alina’s grown used to weird, grown used to people taking a double look at her, as if they’re not sure if she’s human at all.

She would find amusement in this, except she isn’t sure herself most of the time.

‘You’re rude,’ she retorts, getting on her horse and pulling at the reins.

He makes a sound, which reminds her of _Sturmhond_ and damn this boy for being so many ghosts at once.

‘Wait, wait!’ he calls from behind her.

She sighs, contemplates, is too tired for thinking. Stops. Looks at him.

‘Yes?’ Alina has generally grown from her impatient self, but considering all things, she thinks she deserves to be a bit cranky.

‘Take me with you.’

She’s not as surprised as she should’ve been. She considers this boy, who can’t be older than the boy with the wooden sword that wanted to _fight fight fight_ —

‘What have you got to offer me?’ she challenges.

He squirms and there is a pride and an ego and taking in his filthy clothes and smudged face it really is no question that he’s alone and tired.

Much like herself.

‘I’m a Heartrender, ma’am,’ he says and his little chest fills up. His eyes shine. ‘I—cannot _do_ much, but you seem okay and weird, so maybe you could teach me? And I can become very powerful, so I can repay you.’

He’s Ravkan through and through. And Alina cannot say no, of course she can’t. Though she’ll not be much help to him, she can feed him; find him a river to wash too.

She smiles, the weird girl. ‘Walk beside me.’ He runs to her, as she gives a little kick to her horse to move forward. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ilya,’ he answers.

It’s petrifying, absolutely incredible what her fate is, how it webs around her, how the plot seems to come full circle. It’s all stories and mystery and books and hagiography.

‘You’ve got a history of a name, you know that?’

‘My mother used to pray to him every night. The Shu’s got her, because she was like me.’

Alina didn’t even blink. ‘Do you know what the Small Science is?’

‘No.’

Her lips twitch. ‘You. _You_ are, Ilya. And there is a home for you.’

They take a turn and then they’re heading back to Os Alta.

 

* * *

 

Snow is falling again.

The Darkling is dead, but the Sun Summoner isn’t, therefore he doesn’t have to pretend. It’s not very meticulous, this way, but it’ll have to suffice.

Alina will not go back to the capital. Not before him.

**Author's Note:**

> I used that stupid _the boy and the girl_ thing Bardugo used with Mal and Alina, only this time it's Aleksander. I like it better like this. Anyway, hope I didn't butcher the characters too much. Mal is a totally irrelevant character for me, so he will be used as that in this story. Comments and kudos are very appreciated! xx  
>  Oh, the title means _Only the Winds_. I don't know enough Russian to save my life, but I hope the translation is correct?? If it isn't, inform me and I'll change it!


End file.
